


guilty pleasures

by enkiduu



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Blowjobs, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Humor, M/M, Room Where It Happens fic, that accidentally got a bit carried away
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7009213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkiduu/pseuds/enkiduu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love that is strong enough to give you everything you want is devastating enough to take away everything you have. </p><p>(Slip once, you fall, and you forget how to stand again. Falling for something so dangerous, isn't that's such a Hamiltonian mistake to make—reckless, impulsive, inevitable. And ultimately, impossible.</p><p>But Alexander makes Thomas want the impossible. He makes him want to believe the unimaginable.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the room where it happens

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for this fandom (which has reeeally kind and talented people in it! you guys are all awesome).
> 
> FYI: Jamilton is endgame+falling in love :) Hamburr is falling out of love (imsorry).

The first time it happens, at least Hamilton can justify that it happens out of necessity. Duty requires him to do whatever it takes, after all.

Jefferson is laughing languidly, leaning back into his swivel chair. “Did the cabinet meeting leave you with memory loss making you want an encore?" he drawls. "Or, even better—do you just miss defeat so much?"

"Defeat?" Hamilton repeats incredulously, tries to ignore the fact that the challenge Jefferson poses makes Hamilton fight just that much harder. He certainly does not like it.

Jefferson arches an eyebrow, opens his mouth to speak again, but Hamilton cuts in quickly. "I am aware of our differences,” Hamilton manages, annoyance coloring his voice as he tries to forget the last cabinet debate. Nothing he's done matters if he can't get the votes he needs. "I simply wish to reach a compromise for the sake of our nation.”

“The great Alexander Hamilton never agrees to compromise unless he’s the one desperate for something,” Jefferson scoffs mockingly, waves a haughty, dismissive hand. “Whatever you have to say, the answer is no. Unless you’re here to do something useful with your mouth other than argue, get out.”

Hamilton grits his teeth, bites down on his retorts against Jefferson’s taunts. They’re true, anyway.

The silence rings with the truth behind Hamilton’s late-night, out-of-office-hours visit. Instead of smirking smugly as Hamilton expected, Jefferson looks momentarily stunned, staring at Hamilton blankly.

Affronted, maybe? Hamilton panics. Maybe he’s misread—well—everything. The way Jefferson looks at him sometimes, the implication behind what he says that is wholly inappropriate between normal colleagues... “You’re the one who suggests it all the time," he accuses, because he refuses to defend himself in front of Thomas Jefferson.

"Hardly my fault. The rumors of your dalliances during the war suggest that you've slept with half the army," Jefferson says. His lips curve into a smirk. “And now, the enemy, huh?"

"Oh, don't you worry about me," Hamilton says. "I'll survive no matter how grave the situation and how terrible the company."

"You will," Jefferson laughs again, but this time, it's part amusement, part something visceral. It affects Hamilton more than he would like. "Well, you’d better start convincing me." He looks at him expectantly, arrogant as always. Doesn't even move, just sits back waiting as if bored, his eyes glittering like that ridiculous, purple suit he wears.

Hamilton feels strangely self-conscious with Jefferson's undivided attention on him. This man, how does he, like nobody else, manage to reduce Hamilton to feeling like he needs to fight for his consideration, to prove he deserves to be in the same room?

Well, Hamilton thinks with a sudden viciousness, he's going to persuade him so fucking well that Jefferson will fall apart in his hands by the end of this. He refocuses himself and walks forward, kneeling down before Jefferson.

Hamilton notes the tent of his breeches. Jefferson’s obviously already half-hard. He glances up at Jefferson and smirks. "Have you thought about this before?" he wonders, even though he should just shut up and get this over with. He shouldn't take pleasure in this. But if he can, why not? "Such depraved thoughts, Mister Jefferson."

As it turns out, two can play at this game.

"In your dreams, Alexander," Jefferson dares to fucking purr in a voice like sex, tongue curling around his name like he owns him, and Hamilton isn't sure if he wants to kiss him or shoot him.

“Any dream with you in it would be a nightmare,” Hamilton scoffs. “And I did not give you permission to use my name.” He glares and proceeds to remove Jefferson's pants, starting with the belt. He tosses it to the side with a _clink._ The breeches fall, and Hamilton swallows, stare for a moment too long, because damn, Jefferson is _big._

He obviously knows it too, because he smirks, staring down at Hamilton smugly. “What, scared you can’t take it?”

Hamilton always rises up to a challenge. He wastes no time on more words, not when he can do this. Whatever else Jefferson is about to say dissipates as Hamilton puts his lips around Jefferson’s cock.

Hamilton feels the thick heaviness that's Thomas Jefferson inside his mouth. He hasn’t done this in some time, but this isn’t something he can forget. He strokes the base of the cock, licks wetly along the underside, feels Jefferson shudder. Fingers have found their way into Hamilton’s hair, holding him steady as Jefferson fucks his mouth.

"Your mouth is good for something, at least," Jefferson says, a hitch in his voice, strained, and if he’s trying to steady his breath, he’s failing. He’s moving his hips, wanting more, rocking in time with the bobbing of Hamilton's head, and there’s no way he can feign disinterest now, not when it’s obvious how aroused he is by this, focused on Hamilton with such intensity.

Since Hamilton can’t give a verbal reply right now, he sucks harder, swallows Jefferson’s cock deep down his throat. Jefferson makes a noise, a gasped out moan, and he tugs sharply at Hamilton’s hair, a lapse of self-restraint. Hamilton whimpers. His own cock is achingly hard beneath his breeches, throbbing with arousal.

"So good, Alexander," Jefferson praises, and _fuck, don’t say my name like that, don’t._ "So fucking good for me."

Hamilton moans around Jefferson's cock, never thought he'd ever hear those words from Jefferson. They despise each other. But then again, maybe that’s why this is so good, it’s because he knows Jefferson hates him, but Hamilton’s still good enough for Jefferson to want this.

Hamilton has to slow down and focus on breathing for a moment. Jefferson, surprisingly, lets him have this momentary break.

Or maybe not. Jefferson lets out a laugh. “Fuck, Hamilton,” he breathes. “And here I thought you’re just desperate enough to trade yourself for what you want, but it turns out this _is_ what you want, isn’t it? So desperate to suck cock? What a whore.”

Hamilton pulls back and glares, feels the heat rise in him. “Yeah? Hah, Jefferson, funny you should say that, when this is worth turning your back on your ideals.” He leans forward and licks once, slowly, tauntingly, recklessly, doesn’t care that he’s angering him, because Jefferson accepted this deal, he doesn’t get to fucking say this, he’s sitting on no moral high ground here.

Jefferson’s smirk falls into a sneer, fury flaming in his eyes, and Hamilton has the urge to laugh, but is too breathless for that. “Watch what you say, Hamilton, you’re the one on your knees begging. You came to me.” He stands up abruptly.

Hamilton tenses. Jefferson grabs him by the shoulders and drags him up, throwing him back against the desk, and not lightly either. Shit, Hamilton stumbles. "What the fuck," he gasps. He wipes his lips, angry and aroused and confused, but when he meets Jefferson's gaze, he understands. “You—”

"Shut up," says Jefferson, who is tall and dark and strong and hungry and looks like he wants to devour him. Even if they don't understand anything else about each other, they understand what they both want. There’s always been a fire between them, a sort of attraction that has them gravitating towards each other. “You never stop talking, do you.”

And right now, what they want, it's—

Jefferson kissing Hamilton, and damn, he's a good kisser, tongue clashing and hands coming round Hamilton to undress him. He strokes Hamilton’s cock, smears the precum down the head, and Hamilton feels dizzy with arousal, sitting against the desk. He swipes a stack of papers to the ground with a bout of pettiness, then groans when Jefferson squeezes his cock. His hands are soft, probably hasn’t done a day’s work in his life, but his fingers are calloused, rough from playing music, and right now they’re dragging sounds out of Hamilton.

“I’m going to come if you don’t fuck me now,” Hamilton moans. “Just fuck me already. Or do you need instructions?”

“Not necessary, Hamilton,” Jefferson says, in the same way he says shut up. “Turn around.” Hamilton can’t think anything but yes yes yes right now, he needs to come, he needs Jefferson _in him,_ so he turns around, lets Jefferson press him down, and when fingers push at his lips, he opens up easily, sucking his fingers like he sucks cock. Jefferson exhales shakily. "Remember this," he hisses into his ear. “I’m the reason you’ll be able to get up and have any work to go to next week, the only reason you can still walk. You’d still be on your knees begging, but no one else…”

Hamilton vaguely recalls why he came here, thinks for a second that he should probably remember that, but his mind is a lust-filled haze right now. He tries to pull reason back into the narrative, but then Jefferson’s hand is gone from his mouth and down low, a finger pushing into him, and then another.

He's going to feel this tomorrow, every nerve fired up, sore, wanting—God, imagine that, walking back into office tomorrow with Washington, would he know?

Hamilton promptly loses that thought when Jefferson's finger curls in him, wet with spit, and somehow hits that place that makes his vision shake with stars. Hamilton groans. It's so good, but not enough, he needs more. This isn't enough. "Jefferson," he says, and feels Jefferson shudder. He groans. "Come on." 

"So impatient," Jefferson says, but he does position his cock against Hamilton instead. Hamilton meets him as Jefferson pushes up, and the sting makes him flinch slightly. He shakes, falling forwards, hands coming up just quick enough to prop him up so he doesn’t smash face-first into the wood. He trembles, cock twitching, pressed between him and the desk. It’s uncomfortable, but god, he’s hard, Jefferson’s inside him.

Hamilton gasps in pleasure, feels so full, and Jefferson does not wait. As they move together, it's hot and messy and filthy. Jefferson rocks into Hamilton again and again and again, heat rising between them as it always has, friction and tension amounting to this, a fight that only grows between them.

They match each other in wits and here, Hamilton clenches around Jefferson's cock, which elicits a moan. Hamilton tries to laugh, but it’s a bad move, it has him unable to suppress his moans. He’s loud, moaning with each thrust, and he relishes the way Jefferson can't seem to control his erratic, hard thrusts, his desire. He wants this just as much as Hamilton does.

“Fuck, yes, there, _fuck_ ,” Hamilton whimpers, feeling Jefferson’s cock drag inside him at a pace that’s suddenly too slow to be anything but purposeful agony. He closes his eyes against tears, god, he feels so alive, this is so so good, he'd always known it would be like this.

“So tight around me,” Jefferson moans, “you feel so fucking good, Alexander.”

“Please, yes, like that—”

(Between them lies desperation and desire, knowing that not only is time against them, but also the world. Better men might feel guilty, might confess the truth, might try for something called romance and stability, but they are great, instead, so they cannot allow such vulnerability in their lives. Slip, you fall, and they don’t know how to stand for something as foreign as this. There’s no way you can fall from this, for this, and survive in the end.

And there is an end. What has started? Nothing. There’s nothing to lose. _Nothing._ )

Hamilton comes, spilling over the deck messily, and Jefferson stops him from collapsing, still going, and Hamilton swears. He has the surprising decency to pull out before he comes, and Hamilton bites down an irrational protest at the sudden emptiness, bites down on his knuckle so he doesn’t cry Jefferson’s name.

After a moment, Jefferson backs away, and the pressure over Hamilton’s body lifts. He stands upright slowly and they dress. Jefferson curses under his breath about having to clean this up. Such an inconvenience Hamilton is, he proclaims, but there’s no real bite in his voice.

Hamilton doesn't feel sated. His bright eyes meet Jefferson's dark ones, still brimming with—what?

It's not enough, so it cannot matter.

Jefferson’s lips curve up into a sharp smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Close the door on your way out," he drawls. “I’ll arrange a meeting with Madison. Have an actual plan, and I’ll consider it.”

Hamilton suppresses the disappointment he feels. He should be satisfied that Jefferson is even doing anything in return for this instead of laughing in his face and sending him out the door. Jefferson is insufferable and conceited, he reminds himself. A hypocrite pooling in contradictions, how can he even breathe without drowning in guilt? How can he still walk?

Hamilton inhales, exhales. Tries to steady his breath. “Great,” he says tersely, for once in his life. The tension between them hasn't subsided, but it has twisted into something different, something more dangerous, desperate. They both know it. They've each shown a hand that was never supposed to be played, not in this game, this life.

“A good night to you, Hamilton,” Jefferson says, getting the last word in.

Hamilton slams the door behind him, and he can feel Jefferson’s lingering gaze on him the whole way. He sees him even when he closes his eyes that night, hears Jefferson’s voice in his ear, his hot mouth on his, the wrenched out moans. He remembers the way Jefferson filled him up, thrusting into him with such strength and accuracy.

Needless to say, he doesn’t catch a very good night’s sleep.

***

“A compromise?” Madison repeats, surprised. What could have made Jefferson, who believes so deeply in his own ideals (which contrast so starkly from Hamilton’s), to even consider letting Hamilton’s plans through?

"Just listen to what he has to say," Jefferson says. "He did beg me for an audience, claims to carry a worthy bargain. Might as well entertain him."

“Alright, if you’re certain about this,” Madison relents, raising his eyebrows.

“There’s nothing certain about that man,” he mutters, but his distasteful tone carries no real hatred. He sounds—exasperated, for lack of a better word. Maybe even...

No. Impossible. Madison shakes his head. He doesn’t want to know.


	2. quid pro quo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot. Oops.

Jefferson chooses a venue with a warm ambience, shadows shivering in candlelight. It's the kind that Hamilton wasn't able to afford a few years ago. It's the kind Hamilton wishes he could have afforded back when he still had the time to take people out on dates.

Macaroni and cheese is served. along with a bottle of wine, and Hamilton frowns openly at his choice of dish, because frankly, it's somewhat insulting and just plain ridiculous.

Hamilton glances at Madison, then at the mac and cheese pointedly, then back to Madison.

Madison doesn't quite crack a smile, but he does nod. Ridiculous.

Ridiculous, like the rest of the shit that's happened so far since Hamilton got his job (he's fought tooth and nail for it, he's earned everything he has today, unlike some people who seem to just lounge about ripping apart at his work—he's fucking earned it so he's sure as hell going to keep it).

Hamilton is relieved (not disappointed) that Madison is here with them, acting as a sort of buffer (and probably knows it, since he keeps glancing between the two of them). It's nice, even if Madison doesn't have any good feelings left for him after their own fallout.

Madison's presence distracts Hamilton from thinking about what happened between him and Jefferson in that goddamn room and lets Hamilton focus on the political matters at hand.

And why did he have to pick this place, it's like a mockery of romance and stings more than it should because a relationship between two men—romance?—been there done that and it always ends in a fucking tragedy, he's sorry.

They talk. Well, it's mostly Hamilton speaking and Jefferson and Madison listening. It's strange. Hamilton half expects Jefferson to snicker and tell him to start packing, _prepare for retirement, Alexander,_ or start another dispute over assumption, but the war doesn't happen and they remain civil.

It's hard, because when Hamilton looks at Jefferson he feels heat coil inside and if he doesn't redirect it into anger, it'll burst into some impulsive decision again.

Read: more sex. Thrilling, exhilarating, really impressive sex.

He doesn't want Jefferson to know that he wasn't only desperate for the votes. If Jefferson knew that vulnerability, he'd be cackling and jeering.

The votes had somehow turned into the means, and the end...doesn't feel like an end. Hamilton's still not satisfied. It didn't sate his hunger at all, possibly made it worse now that he knows intimately how it feels to have Jefferson deep inside him to the hilt.

Bad thoughts at a bad time, Hamilton. A jolt of arousal hits him and he stuffs some macaroni into his mouth and focuses on the compromise.

They talk about capital and Capital. Hamilton doesn't dwell on how easily he trades away New York City to pass his financial plan, knows that it's the right move even if the people of today won't understand enough to appreciate it. This is good for the people of tomorrow, and honestly: it's more than good for himself.

Anyway, it's not as if any of this will displease Washington in the least. He has the most to gain from this compromise.

"To life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," Jefferson declares, raising his glass, because he's a fucking elitist coxcomb who loves to quote himself.

Hamilton rolls his eyes, raising his glass, and says, "to political unity," because God forbid Jefferson think he's going to bend over for him (figuratively; literally, well, that remains to be determined) from now on. They both know political unity is a bullshit oxymoron, especially when it comes to them.

Jefferson arches an eyebrow, eyes glittering with amusement that's for once not at Hamilton's expense, and Hamilton can't help his own smile from forming. He hides it quickly by downing his drink, but not before seeing Jefferson's dazzling grin.

It's beautiful. That's unfair. Jefferson's not a just man, he's flawed and hypocritical and a pompous asshole. He shouldn't be beautiful.

Jefferson smirks. "Nice doing business with you, Alexander," he drawls. Their handshake lasts longer than necessary, and Jefferson ghosts his fingers over Hamilton's wrist, his racing pulse. "I look forward to our next time."

 _Our next time._ Hamilton's breath catches and he's about to retort a no-way-in-hell, because logically, how's he going to find an excuse to touch Jefferson again? He's not going to voluntarily sacrifice his political pursuits.

But Jefferson's already prancing away and the words are strangled in his throat, because next time. He wants that. Jefferson just—he just implied that he wants a next time too.

He involuntarily shivers, thinks of how Jefferson pushed him down, the way they kissed, teeth biting lips and sucking and—

"Oh shit," Hamilton mutters eloquently. He's so fucked. Figuratively and literally, there's no doubt about it.

In retrospect (what a lie, he's not stupid, Hamilton knew this before he propositioned Jefferson, but that thought is dangerous territory) there were definitely other ways to persuade Jefferson.

And Jefferson didn't have to agree, in any case. Hamilton guesses it's because Jefferson likes the thought of having something to hold over him, why else?

Alexander Hamilton, going on his knees, begging for Jefferson's help. Of course he'd get off on that. Jefferson probably hates him enough to do that. That makes sense. Horrid sense, but sense nonetheless. Jefferson's only mocking him by playing along.

...Hamilton hates how if he could go back to that room, he'd make the exact same choice. He groans.

He doesn't get much sleep, once again. Not that he usually does, and it's not the first time Jefferson's the cause—but keep this up and it might become a pattern.

(God help and forgive him, but he hopes it might become a pattern.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know nothing about how anything works, I just pretend and there's no beta to stop me *evil laugh*. If you see glaring historical inaccuracy or anachronism, I am guilty. If you see anything wrong at all, I am guilty. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, please leave a kudos or comment, I'd really appreciate it! Tell me what you like, don't like, and what you wanna see. Feel free to visit me on tumblr at kolminye!


	3. I wanted what I got

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burr wants to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I just can't tell a story with Alexander Hamilton without mixing Aaron Burr into it...
> 
> Anyway, there are allusions to other pairings and possible Hamburr UST, read into it as you will. End game is Jamilton!

Everyone assumes the usual political game happened—Hamilton trades away New York City for his personal ambitions. Some hate him for it, but the point is he got what he wanted. It's power for power, a quid pro quo.

Technically, they're not wrong. But they do not understand, and when it comes to Jefferson—that infuriating man—things get infinitely more complicated.

Burr ends up being the only person who questions him about it.

It's surprising, because Burr never asks about anything that might reveal himself, always remaining neutral. Lying in wait until the last possible moment to choose a side, just so he might hope to be on the side that has ascertained victory.

Burr's mentality Hamilton still cannot understand, and doesn't think he ever will. You can't just fight for a side when you see hope, you see hope because you've fought your damn hardest for it.

That fundamental disagreement is what's soured their relationship, and it makes Hamilton feel a little sorry every time they meet.

Hamilton's not received a visit from Burr for quite some time—it's usually only a few salutations exchanged in the halls, when they run into each other at work. Hamilton hasn't gone over to debate with him anymore over cases, forcing Burr to, quote, "just take a hypothetical stance on this hypothetical case, Burr!"

After the war ended, so many other things ended as well. Life (no) and Love ( _no_ ) gone, for the sake of Liberty, and the Loss is worth it, has to be. So much has changed, and Hamilton had wished that his first friend, at least, might remain there.

They've known each other the longest, after all.

This is worse, Hamilton thinks as Burr greets him with a pleasant smile plastered on his face. This is worse because though Burr _is_ still there—right fucking here—he acts so distant. Hamilton feels like if he reaches out, Burr will fade away like a memory, rippling away like a watery illusion, and in the place will be but a stranger. Someone Hamilton cannot recognize.

"Mister Secretary," Burr greets him. His politeness is impeccable.

"Mister Burr, sir," Hamilton replies.

"I came to say congratulations," Burr says, not for the first time. "It's a big deal—Congress agrees, if not on anything else, then at least on that."

"Shocking," Hamilton laughs. "Well thank you, sir."

Burr grins. "Indeed, it's almost as shocking as your compromise with Jefferson. So, how did you do it?" he asks smoothly.

Hamilton shrugs. "I listened to you," he says lightly.

"Ah," Burr says casually as if he doesn't care and finds this ordeal amusing. "Jefferson and Madison are merciless."

Yeah, well, that's what Burr believes. Hamilton isn't so sure anymore. Besides, Hamilton needs no mercy; he can take whatever comes to him.

"I did what I had to," Hamilton says. This isn't a topic he wants to delve into right now. Especially not with Burr.

"Is that so. Hate the sin, love the sinner?" Burr echoes the words Hamilton had unwittingly said with a touch of irony, as if he himself understands precisely what Hamilton meant. Heavy with implication.

(Technically, Hamilton's not wrong. But when it comes to Burr, there's always another truth obfuscated underneath, hidden close to his chest—Hamilton will not understand.)

Could Burr know, what happened in that room? Could he suspect? Hamilton stands a little straighter. Burr does not get to judge him, not silently, and not in this.

Hate the sin, love the sinner.

The sin is lust, has to be, Hamilton thinks. Anything more is unimaginable; besides, his imagination has gathered more than enough material to write a whole novel about the secret between him and Jefferson.

Standing in front of Hamilton, Burr's expression is inscrutable, his smile an impenetrable wall that reflects whatever people want to see, a lake that's full of lies.

He always did win at cards, Hamilton recalls abruptly, the few times he played with the rest of the gang. Before the war. During the war. Lafayette, Mulligan and—

And after the war. A sharp pang of loss hits him. Whether at the thought of what he can never have again or what could have been, he doesn't know. They both hurt like hell, and he can only move onwards, even if he feels like he's never getting anywhere more than a few feet in front of him, which is never enough. It's never enough.

"You got what you wanted," Burr says, slowly, almost carefully, and his eyes are dark, wary. Is that a question? An accusation?

"I seized the chance I saw—to get my debt plan through Congress," he says defensively. "And I do believe the compromise is a success for all parties involved."

Burr seems unconvinced, persistent. "You got more than that," he says. Displeased. Maybe even—worried? No. Impossible. Hamilton's lips curve downwards. "More than you gave..." he trails off, and he _knows._ They both know what they know.

Hamilton hates defending himself in front of Burr, and yet he still tries, every time. He's tired of it. "What are you implying?" Hamilton retorts. "I wanted what I got. What do _you want_?" he asks. The words tumble out more scathingly than intended, but he can't stop. "Waiting doesn't advance your path, Burr."

Burr blinks, blankly, expression faltering for a second into something almost turbulent, just for a second. Then he shakes his head as if he's made a decision and smiles. "I suppose it doesn't. Goodbye, Alexander," he says, and the words sound heavy with a note of finality. "I'll leave you to your work."

Hamilton inclines his head and resumes writing his essays because he's disinclined to analyze this conversation. As Burr says, he's got work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh alex...
> 
> As usual, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Also, you can find me on tumblr @kolminye


	4. a word of warning

Foolish. Jefferson has been foolish—indulgent, impulsive, and now he's going to pay for acting as recklessly as Alexander Hamilton does every single day. 

Since they met last year, Jefferson's felt like he's lost all his common sense. If only consulting Thomas Paine could help him here.

Politics isn't supposed to feel so personal. Jefferson's good at everything, really fucking amazing if he does say so himself (which he does). He's good at charming and impressing and persuading. When he walks into any room, all the heads turn to him like he's a strike of thunder, and they cling to his every word.

But Hamilton—that infuriating man—he's a hurricane, whirling into every room even uninvited (and most of the time, he's unwanted), and he runs his mouth endlessly, never shutting up. How does a man go on and on and on? Why must he, of all people, make Jefferson unable to look away? 

Jefferson wonders: how many times has Alexander gone onto his knees in proximity to power? Is this really how he's risen up so quickly, by fucking his way up?

He rolls his eyes, dismissing the idea. As much as he'd like to say that'd make a whole lot of sense, he has to give Hamilton some credit. Only in his mind, of course, God forbid Hamilton hear it spoken out loud. He's already instituting public credit and praised more than enough by Wall Street, he doesn't need more from Jefferson.

And Hamilton sure as hell doesn't need to sell himself to gain power. He already and always gives everything he's got to get everything he has. That's undeniable. Jefferson doesn't need to ask how Hamilton's risen to the top, doesn't need to ask how Hamilton is Washington's right-hand man. He can understand that. He _does_ understand that.

It's just that Hamilton also takes and takes and takes, and Jefferson...well, he can't take that. He shouldn't. Shouldn't let Hamilton in, but Alexander—that brilliant man—stands for what he believes in so fervently, passionately. And he believes in so much, even if his opinions are the most insane shit Jefferson's ever heard. How _good_ it is to finally have something to really oppose. How the danger makes Thomas' blood boil, make him feel alive.

In retrospect, he couldn't have possibly said no to Hamilton. How could he have, when _Alexander Hamilton_ was quite literally _begging_ for him? Alexander's wide, deep eyes, bright and always focused on Thomas when they're in the same room. When they are alone, the heat and tension can amount to one, inevitable thing, and the feeling is intoxicating. (Well, _two,_ but murder isn't exactly good for PR.) Unlike other people Hamilton has definitely fucked (Jefferson cannot forget the image that's burned into his mind—Alexander's talented _mouth_ , hot and wet over his cock, swallowing like he does this for a living, damn; and the way he moans, squeezes his eyes shut when he writhes in ecstasy—), Hamilton _needed_ something from Jefferson that only Jefferson could give. Nobody else. 

That Hamilton didn't really have a choice but to turn to him...Jefferson's not sure if that makes him pleased (okay, so he is) or annoyed (ah, the indisputable subtext when it comes to Hamilton). Not that he looked anything but eager, lustful and wanton like a whore, but Jefferson can't exactly mock him when he's still aroused by the memory. At the very least, Hamilton can't mock Jefferson and call his support cheap without further demeaning himself, either. 

Except Hamilton has unlimited financial power now, so he's literally not cheap in any meaning of the word. For the next few years, Jefferson's going to have to work to curb the Federalists' influence on the government and Hamilton's influence on Washington, if that is even possible. 

Especially considering right this moment, Jefferson is sitting across from Washington, who bears his usual stern disposition. His hands are clasped over his desk, his posture reminding people his history of being The General, as if anybody could forget. 

When Washington told Jefferson to meet him inside his office, he didn't look very pleased—who the hell knows why. Congress passed Hamilton's acts. Washington should be damn glad that Jefferson finally acquiesced as he did on the matter. 

"Jefferson," Washington begins. 

"Mr President." 

"Hamilton's debt plan passed." 

Jefferson arches an eyebrow, smiles politely. "We managed to meet a compromise," he says cautiously. Where is Washington going with this? 

"Yes," Washington says, "you did. And I hope you two will be more agreeable in the future." 

"I make no promises, Mr President," Jefferson says automatically, because he really can't say anything for certain when it comes to Hamilton. Seeing Washington's expression, he quickly amends, "but we'll try." 

Washington doesn't look very convinced, eyes assessing Jefferson. He doesn't ask what Hamilton had done to convince Jefferson behind closed doors, but Jefferson has a hunch that Washington doesn't like his suspicions. As President, he knows more than anybody how much political animosity exists between Jefferson and Hamilton. 

Jefferson sighs inwardly, leaning back in his seat. He'd done so much to stomp Hamilton's outrageous financial system, which sure didn't sail well personally with the President, who seemed on the verge of dismissing him from the cabinet at one point. 

He doubts Washington would blame Hamilton for anything that might've happened between them (or just anything, in general). For all he knows, Jefferson could've been the one to force himself on Hamilton. 

What a fucking mess. 

"Good," Washington says. "I expect more collaboration between the two of you in the future, it does the country good." He doesn't quite smile, but it's close. 

Jefferson can do nothing but incline his head in acknowledgement. He has the sinking feeling Washington has something planned. 

A bullet just whizzed past him, and it feels less like he dodged it and more so that Washington missed on purpose, a word of warning for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> according to Chernow, Washington never spoke to Jefferson again because of Jefferson's attempts at undermining Hamilton's financial plan, lol 
> 
> history makes me laugh


	5. nobody knows how the game is played

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love that is strong enough to give you everything you want is devastating enough to take away everything you have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments and support, they really make my day!!! <3 Hope you guys enjoy :D
> 
> Also, thanks to [Nakimochiku](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakimochiku/pseuds/Nakimochiku) for looking over this, improving it, and being awesome. Go check out her fics!

August flies by. Golden leaves spotted by flecks of amber dance in the wind against a yellow sky. It feels like the world is burning with bright flames that cannot be put out.

Hamilton doesn't become any more docile in his political plots. As per usual, he's got something up his sleeve, another plan he wants pushed past Congress.

But lately, since what'd happened in the Room (Hamilton's begun to mentally capitalize that word, as if it makes it feel a little less wrong), their arguments have turned into something almost like easy banter. Something beyond how usual political enemies act.

It's too easy for this to become routine, and so it has. Every morning when Hamilton goes to work, he looks forward to crossing paths with Jefferson. It's no coincidence that they keep meeting.

Memorizing your political enemy's schedule—what's so odd about that? It means he'll get a few more words into their debates. That's all.

Hamilton's got a pamphlet prepared in his hands when Jefferson turns the corner of the hallway, almost walking into Hamilton. 

Dark eyes sharpen the moment they land on Hamilton. "Hamilton, explain," Jefferson says, forgoing all politesse. No surprise there. "The hell?"

"I take it you've heard," Hamilton says, eyeing Jefferson's suit with a bemused frown. It's an odd shade of...Are those flowers on his sleeves? 

Jefferson follows Hamilton's gaze, arching an eyebrow, as if daring him to say something about the suit. Which Hamilton would've, if Jefferson's next words weren't a smarmy, suggestive drawl. "Getting distracted by something you see?"

Hamilton resists the urge to swat at Jefferson. "Nothing worth mentioning," he says.

"Nothing you'd know how to appreciate, either," Jefferson retorts. "And yes, I've heard about your tax. When you're practically yelling with all the essays you write, it's not something one can miss."

"I don't suppose you're here to declare your support for it?"

"Am I here to endorse you, of all people, and your whiskey tax, which is going to turn half of America against the government?" Jefferson asks pensively, as if genuinely considering the notion. "No, Hamilton. I'm not here to declare my support for your new plan towards financial success."

No surprise there either. Sometimes, Hamilton thinks they belong in theatre rather than in politics, especially Jefferson with his ostentatious dress and dramatic attitude.

Hamilton rolls his eyes. "But you do admit my plans lead to financial success. Mark it on the calendar, you all heard Mr Jefferson say it." He looks around and the eavesdroppers dutifully find the walls suddenly very intriguing.

"At the expense of every ideal we stand for? A government that can give the people everything they want can also take away everything they have, Hamilton," Jefferson says, narrowing his eyes, heat seeping into his voice. "And for the record? Your whiskey tax—"

"People may not want it, but this country needs it! Do you want to rely on trade with Britain? We lack self-sufficiency. What do you not get?" Hamilton asks. He's suddenly very aware of how close they are standing. Close enough to touch, to share a breath. "Oh, wait. I'm the Secretary of Treasury, not you. I'm sure there's a reason for that."

"Probably because if you tried your hand at foreign diplomacy, we'd have another war on our hands." Jefferson sneers. "Remember that time when our poorer citizens gracefully accepted the tax on tea? Because the Boston Harbor sure as hell doesn't."

Now that's entirely unfair because Jefferson wasn't there to fight in the war, he didn't see the carnage and the desperation, he's not the one haunted by death and soul-crushing _loss._ How can a single man be so infuriating?

"Would you rather I push through a higher tax on land?" Hamilton asks the man who owns Monticello and practically half of Virginia, and damn if he isn't still bitter about that. Jefferson scarcely tries to justify his owning of slaves (naturally, as it is unjustifiable), and when he does, his only answer is _I'm not the only one_. "I'm just trying to be progressive here, Mr Enlightenment."

"I'd rather you not pass any act at all," Jefferson replies, and damn if that isn't the story of every day.

"Of _course_ , you would say that—"

"You trade liberty for money," Jefferson accuses. "For a former clerk, you're awful at trade."

Hamilton blinks, an uncharacteristic pause in their verbal exchange. Jefferson seems to realize what he just said too and huffs.

A smirk spreads across Hamilton's face, all mischief and challenge glinting in his dark eyes. "Is that so?"

Jefferson laughs under his breath. "Oh you insolent shit. If I didn't have a meeting soon..." He leans forward, and to anyone else, it might look like a threat whispered in his ear. And damn, it should feel threatening, unpleasant. But it sparks flames of desire, coiling in his stomach.

"My office at seven," Jefferson murmurs, breath ghosting over Hamilton's ear, a hand brushing his arm. It sends shivers down his spine. "I'll show you how wrong you are."

***

Jefferson barely waits for the door to lock behind Hamilton. He's impatient, they both are, because they've been wanting this, they've been dreaming of this, of each other.

They cannot lie, they cannot deny, how can they? There's no pretense that this magnetic attraction doesn't exist between them, because it does. Desire burns so fiercely and hungrily, it cannot be put out.

Jefferson pushes Hamilton against the door, sees Hamilton's lips quirk up into a devilish smirk. Arrogance, Jefferson thinks. How can a man be so arrogant? Then again, is it arrogance if Hamilton truly is every bit as genius and attractive as he knows he is?

"Alexander," Jefferson says, and Hamilton visibly straightens, lips parting. It makes it easier for Jefferson to capture him with an almost bruising kiss, but Hamilton is not so easily bruised. He meets Jefferson halfway, fists Jefferson's hair and pulls him closer.

This isn't the first time, and it won't be the last. Somewhere along the way, they stop looking for excuses to meet in private and simply visit each other, shut the door and smile. They keep oil on their persons, and it makes things go more smoothly, literally. And oil has been added to their fire. Everything is brighter, more dangerous. This fire has the potential to _burn_ all of those around them.

They cannot lie, they cannot deny, how can they? But they must, they know that. They have both had their past relationships—loose ends that tie into painful knots inside them, leaving lasting marks and memories that cannot be reclaimed as reality.

Jefferson shuts his eyes briefly against the brilliance that is Alexander Hamilton. It burns just to be beside him, and being inside him is even worse. The rest of them are all pitiful moths. He gasps, feeling Hamilton clench around his cock, tight and searing and the heat is overwhelming, Jefferson had to hold on tight to not slip slip slip over the edge immediately.

He feels as if he's already fallen, a casualty in Hamilton's war for affection. Hamilton plays dirty, always has, and _fuck_.

Hamilton's eyes meet his, pupils blown wide and hungry as if he's starved. He looks at him as if Jefferson's the world, to be challenged, marveled at, fought for. As if he knows (he does) that oh, the world is not a good place, yet Hamilton will still fight dearly for it.

They should lie. They should deny. How can they not?

Yet after, after they come apart in each other's arms, when Alexander lies so close to Thomas, he finds that he doesn't care about should and should nots.

"You're a selfish man, Alexander," he says into the dark room, and Thomas is foolish, he is weak, he can't say no to Alexander Hamilton when Alexander is offering all of himself, when he is here to take take take everything he has.

"That's simply another way to say there is much I'm willing to fight for."

"There is much to lose..."

A trace of despair flashes across Alexander face, one that he doesn't manage to hide. Thomas regrets putting it there. He derives no pleasure from seeing Alexander in pain.

Yet Alexander doesn't relent, he presses on, he's willing to fight, as he said. "Thomas—" he begins, and for someone who oft rambles on so much, he is more than capable of infusing a single name with the weight of the world's emotions. Trepidation, anger, want, fear, hope, and—

Alexander can disperse all the darkness in this room, in this world with a single word. He's a beacon, like the fucking lighthouses he's so fond of, and Thomas can see so clearly and vividly around him, though he feels blind. Where are they headed? What's the end game? Can they make it out of this Room, together, unscathed?

Thomas...he wants that. He wants to believe they can.

"But so much more to gain," he amends, allows, though Alexander has never needed permission, and there is no forgiveness to be imagined here. Thomas smiles, the most hesitant he has ever been, yet he's also strangely sure about Alexander. It's...by God, it's wrong, but then again, he's never thought Alexander right before.

Alexander's eyes widen in surprise, delight, and he smiles like this moment is a dream come true. It splits the world open, shakes it upside down, and Thomas can only hope this doesn't end with the both of them broken-hearted.

He hopes it doesn't end at all.

Because love that is strong enough to give you everything you want is devastating enough to take away everything you have.

  


	6. a dangerous game

Days pass. Things are going surprisingly well for Thomas and Alexander. Their conversations run without one stalking out of the room fuming, and their intimate rendezvous always end with the promise of more.

The rest of the office has always been skittish around them, as if a bomb is about to go off in the middle of their conversation. And it's gotten as bad as ever, with all the sexual tension and whatnot.

Not that the others realize it's sexual tension, that is simply too scandalous to consider.

Madison thinks people might want to see a fight break out. Doing paperwork all day can get very dull, and they really aren't paid enough to spend all day discussing Hamilton's fifty page essay over minting money. He's fairly certain that there exists a running bet over who's going to get who dismissed from the cabinet first.

All the drama at work revolves around Hamilton, whom Thomas seems to revolve around—which is rather amusing because to Thomas, really, the world revolves around himself and France. Not that Madison is about to tell anyone that, because 1) he does like his job when the Federalists aren't ruining everything (so basically, every once in a blue moon), and 2) Thomas' reaction would probably not go down so well. With anybody. Particularly not with Alexander Hamilton.

Even if nobody else sees it, the quiet, observant Madison does. He sees this bizarre—dance, for want of a better word, that's going on between them. It's good for the country, if the impressive amount of work that gets done is any indication.

And they don't really act as if they hate each others' guts. At least, not all the time. Madison wonders if they enjoy all the arguing, if they both want to fight. Thomas does seem livelier whenever he's around Hamilton.

Madison knows his friend better than Thomas thinks. He also knows Hamilton, remembers him from back in the day, and he's unforgettable (unfortunately); yet Thomas seems to understand him.

Not that they stand for the same things at all, but they still seem to understand each other, often rebuking each other before the other finishes, as if they know precisely what the other is thinking.

It's strange. A bit disconcerting. Sometimes he really doesn't know what the hell is going on with Thomas when it comes to Hamilton.

...Honestly, Madison doesn't think Thomas really knows either.

Oh well, Madison thinks. It's not his business. Besides, Thomas and Hamilton are getting along, relatively speaking. So until they start to genuinely rip at each other's throats and not do this strange whatever-the-fuck-they're-doing, Madison doesn't plan on interfering.

"...Can you believe it? It's as if he misses our dear King George the Third and his overbearing tyranny," Thomas is saying.

Much, anyway. "Yes, Thomas," Madison sighs as he flips a page of Hamilton's report on public credit. Madison was sick the past few days, and now he has forty pages of reading to do. Damn Hamilton. "I can believe it."

Huh. An idea occurs to him. It just might work. "You should dine with him," Madison suggests.

"What?" Thomas coughs, sitting up straight in his desk abruptly, almost knocking over a stack of papers.

Madison smiles. "It wouldn't hurt to try to cooperate with him more."

Thomas looks surprised by the very idea of it, then cocks his head. "Huh." He smirks. "Discourse over dinner is indeed more pleasant, isn't it?"

The more time these two spend together, the less they'll spend arguing politics. Hopefully they'll find new things to argue over and Hamilton will finally take a break from trying to break the current political system.

***

Alexander might not know where this is all going, but he knows what it is. The sin must be lust, but it is also something more than that.

He can feel it in the way warmth rises up in him every time he sees Thomas. He wants to kiss him every time they meet. Practically does, if he's to be honest.

The desire doesn't subside, there is no calm in this storm. They _are_ the storm, hurricane and thunder clashing and rising together, meant to be, inextricably attracted to each other. The thrill is so satisfying that Alexander knows he will never be satisfied without Thomas.

Thomas isn't any of Alexander's other past lovers. What they have is as foreign as the affairs Thomas deals with at work, but familiar enough that Alexander knows it's an _affaire de coeur._

They always have been playing a dangerous game. The stakes rise with each round, now that emotions are on the line. Neither of them knows what exactly they're playing for, but Alexander knows that if he slips further, he won't be able to rise up whole whether they get caught or not.

Affection is so much more dangerous than simple desire. It's giving Thomas the power to ruin him in a few spoken words, a rejection. They could be each other's ruin, both politically and personally.

But that's a part of what makes them unique. They are still political enemies, Alexander doesn't ever see that changing. They were never allies to begin with, there's nothing to betray. He doesn't see the need for it to change, it shouldn't—it's honestly exhilarating that Thomas plays on the same mental level as him and is willing to meet him at every step of the way.

They're playing for each other. Is that what they're playing for? He shouldn't, _they_ shouldn't.

He's sorry, really, he is, but he can't seem to care about the consequences.

He's not sorry enough to stop wanting Thomas. 

***

The door creaks and Eliza's eyes flutter open. 

She waits for him to come to bed. He doesn't. So often does he bring work back home. 

"Alexander," Eliza calls to him softly, walking to Alexander's desk. It's so late, and still he works. She's wearing her night gown, candlelight glowing warmly on her face. "It's late."

Alexander jolts out of his thoughts, surprised. His eyes are just as bright as they were the first time they met, but also impossibly darker. War changed him, made him fiercer and stronger. And now, something else has changed him.

For a long while after Laurens' death, Alexander had worked restlessly and aimlessly. After becoming Secretary of Treasury, Alexander seems to have found purpose, direction, focus. An aim to which he can devote himself. 

Eliza is happy for him, truly, but she wishes Alexander would just take a break. It breaks her heart to watch. 

"France and Britain are on the verge of war," Alexander explains, motioning to what he's writing. It's hard to see in the shadows. "We cannot afford to intervene. I must prepare against...I must be prepared."

Eliza smiles a little, shaking her head. When has Alexander ever shared his thoughts on politics with her? No, not with her. "Go to sleep, Alexander." Raising a hand to caress Alexander's face—a touch of kindness with a touch of sadness—Eliza says, "you don't need to explain yourself to me."

For a moment, Alexander looks stricken. "Eliza..." 

"I know who I married," Eliza says firmly, and she does. She has always known. "Come to bed."

This time, Alexander follows her.

For family, Eliza thinks, that Alexander comes home every day is all that she needs. It is enough. But she can't help thinking that even if this is all she needs, is it so wrong for there to be more for her to want?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your wonderful comments/kudos <3 they're truly great motivation. I hope you guys have a nice summer! Feel free to drop by and message me on [tumblr](http://kolminye.tumblr.com).


	7. summer in the city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens, shifts, but it's summer in the city and trouble is still in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the slow update! easing into my summer schedule has not been easy. hope you enjoy, thanks for being so patient!

Burr can't believe it.

He can't believe that Hamilton gave satisfaction to _Jefferson_ , of all people. All of America knows how much Jefferson and Hamilton hate each other. Maybe that is why nobody else seems to suspect that their company is anything other than hostile. There have been no rumors, no witnesses to anything unbecoming and unimaginable of two of America’s greatest leaders.

Even if nobody else sees it, Burr—Hamilton's first friend and broken, twisted promise—does. He's known Hamilton when he was just a young man with nothing to lose. He's familiar with that glint in Alexander's eyes, that insolent smirk, though it hasn't been directed at him for a long time. Hamilton has status and money now, but he is still hungry as ever. His hunger will never be sated, at the expense of everybody else. It's good for nobody in the end, if the amount of careless recklessness in Hamilton is any indication.

And now they act—what? As if he's been chained to Jefferson, like the debt Hamilton has tried so hard to disperse. The way they act so close is so close to the way that Burr has lost. 

Burr knows Hamilton better than he would like. Hamilton loves arguing, loves fighting. Loves having an opponent who is willing to rise up and meet him blow for blow. Hamilton is livelier when challenged than at any other time.

Burr wonders: did Hamilton get on his knees for Jefferson? Is this how he's risen up so quickly, by fucking his way up?

The compromise is unlikely otherwise. Burr supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Hamilton has always been ruthless, amoral, dangerous, and so is Jefferson.

Ambition is his ruin and pride his fall, and he's always been _so goddamn eager to fall_. 

Hamilton takes and takes and takes, and Aaron had let him do that for too long (God knows why he had Alexander's attention, God forgive him for why he wants it). There’s a distance between them that Alexander no longer closes with provocative smirks or heated touches. Their intimacy is gone, the flame doused out over the years, and Burr is left with a stranger.

He knows exactly who and  _what_ Alexander Hamilton is--a man who takes too much and gives never enough, starving people of the attention he himself yearns for. It's entirely unfair because once you lay your eyes on him, you can't look away even if it burns, and oh does he burn. 

So Hamilton is chasing what he wants, whether that be glorious legacy or Jefferson. If it is glory, then why should Burr act any differently? He doesn't deserve it any less than Hamilton.

And if it is Jefferson, then, the man will surely regret the day he lets himself revolve around Hamilton's gravity. Burr refuses to let the world revolve around Hamilton. 

(And if it is Jefferson, well. It doesn't matter if it is, because it won't be _Burr_.)

*******

War is brewing between Britain and France, and with it comes the question of neutrality. 

Washington has the answer. He just needs Hamilton to get America to agree with it. He knows Hamilton can do it, but... 

"It shouldn't even _be_ a question!" Hamilton is nearly shouting. "It wouldn't be a question if Jefferson didn't decide that France's welfare matters more than ours."

"If you truly cared about what's right, you wouldn't be so callous," Jefferson retorts. "Liberty is not a joke."

"And if you cared about what's right, you wouldn't be _you_!"

"Ha!" Jefferson gestures at Hamilton and laughs disbelievingly. "Mr President. Do you hear this guy? He's just worried about his little debt plan being ruined."

"Who was complaining just last week about the farmers' grievances?" Hamilton asks. Washington sours a little hearing another reminder of the whiskey rebellion that's going on. "Debt takes time to repay, though _you_ obviously wouldn't know."

"Oh, back to that, are we? I swear, you—"

"Quiet, you two," Washington interrupts, dearly regretting calling Jefferson and Hamilton into the same room. What had been an exchange of ideas quickly dissolved into bickering, though he's not sure why he expected anything less. "We'll be holding a cabinet meeting next week. Gather your thoughts. Hamilton, stay."

Jefferson sends Hamilton a withering glare before walking out.

He's tired, stressed, and Hamilton is too. Washington isn't uncertain of this situation. He's never been indecisive, no matter what people have said. 

"Sir, you can't listen to Jefferson—"

"We cannot afford another war," Washington cuts in before Hamilton can ramble on again. "Especially not one that risks alienating one country or the other."

Hamilton exhales. "Yes."

"But we cannot afford doubt either. You understand? Jefferson may not waver, but we need to win over the others." Washington hopes Hamilton doesn't take it as a challenge, though he can imagine Jefferson riling him up again. What is wrong with the men Washington commands over?

"Of course. Understood. Consider it done." 

Hamilton dismisses himself swiftly before Washington can catch Hamilton and ask about the third complaint this month he's gotten of 'heated arguments oft heard from outside their offices.' He sits down and sighs, supposes it's best that he doesn't know. He doubts it'll be the last complaint, either. America is threatening to fracture into sections, he doesn't need to mess with Jefferson and Hamilton's business. 

How can two men even _have_ so much to disagree on? 

*******

Alexander exits Washington's office to find Thomas waiting, arms crossed and staring out the window.

When he spots Alexander, his expression is completely unreadable for a moment. Alexander's stomach sinks a little, uncomfortable. He's never had Thomas close himself off, and he's not sure why. Is it because of France? Is it because of him? 

But then, thankfully, Thomas exhales and smirks a little, shaking his head. "Well?" he drawls, arching an expectant eyebrow, and they return to a more normal routine. "What'd I miss?" 

"Be ready for the cabinet meeting." Alexander smirks, a smug  _he's on my side_.

"I am, and so it seems of you." Thomas tsks, an exasperated  _of course he fucking is_. "The day he's no longer president, you are going to be in so much shit," he says, grins brazenly. "I can't wait."

"Secretary Jefferson's wishful thinking strikes once again," Alexander declares. "Watch yourself. What would people think if they heard you say that?"

"You know what, Hamilton," Thomas says, "I forget the reason for why I asked you to dine in the first place."

"Backing out so easily?" Alexander taunts, even though he feels uncertain about the matter. The problems with France have had Thomas busy in his room, writing letters and meeting with people all day. Him suggesting a night out to relax was much needed for both of them. 

A scoff, and Alexander feels relieved. "Never. Let's go." 

Alexander's smirk turns into something more like a smile. Lighter. It takes away some of the weariness and stress that's burdened them.

"That's what I thought. You don't need reason behind your actions." 

"Really? _Wow_. I wasn't aware that you thought at all, Alexander."

*******

They meet at a rowdy tavern. The men here are drunk and mind their own business, that business being neither politics nor real business. 

"What sort of backwater venue is this," Thomas says. He wrinkles his nose in disgust. The cool summer night air tastes sordid here.

"Your expression is even better than I'd imagined."

"Please don't tell me you chose this place just for my reaction," Thomas prays. "I don't associate myself with cesspools."

"We've worked in law and politics. I find it hard to believe you're unaccustomed to cesspools.”

“I also work with you,” Thomas says, glancing around the place. He grimaces sourly. “You make a good point.”

Someone runs past them, clucking like a chicken.

There's a moment of silence before Alexander snickers. “Your _face._ "

“I will have no more face after tonight,” Thomas groans.

It's strange, freeing. Banter with Thomas is so easy, natural. It's not like it is with anybody else. Alexander doesn't need to show any mercy or restraint, he never has, and Thomas is obviously willing to race him the full way there every time.

Thomas is so dangerous. He is sharp and has his edges that are most often aimed at Alexander, but when they step outside of politics and into the person all, that blade turns on the side. Thomas is so smooth, soft to look at when he smiles, and dazzling.

Alexander isn't one for boundaries, not when it comes to relationships. He's never been good at self-restraint.

And yet, for once, though he knows that he can absolutely push Thomas further, ask about the real reason for why Thomas has been losing sleep, shadows heavy beneath his eyes and agitation heating up all of his debates related to France…

Alexander doesn't want to. At least, not for tonight. He grabs Thomas' arm and pulls him into a corner where it's relatively quiet so they can hear themselves thinking over the cacophonous chattering in the background and introduces him to the drinks.

"This tastes like  _shit,_ " Thomas says eloquently.

"It does," Alexander agrees as he downs a glass in one go.

Thomas stares at him incredulously. "Seriously, Alexander. Why here?"

Alexander glances at the other men in the room. Loud, young, opinionated. Drunk, too, ha. He smirks a little, tastes the bitter, watered down ale on his tongue. "I haven't been here since the war ended," he confesses, and it's not loud _enough._

Something in Thomas' mind must clear because all he says is, "ah." He shifts and the chair beneath him wobbles. 

"I never got the chance to come back." And it's not a time he can go back to, no matter how much he wants to. "No time in the face of ignorance and resistance."

"I get it," Thomas says simply. "You don't need to go on." He raises a glass. 

Alexander's glad that he doesn't have to explain. Because this is something he has  _never_ talked about, doesn't want to, and there's no pity in Thomas' eyes, no confusion, no scorn. Which might be because Thomas is hardly the most sympathetic man to other people's plights, unlike someone else Alexander knew, but. 

They drink. 

"Did Angelica ever tell you how we met?" Thomas asks. 

"Ugh. Don't remind me. I don't know how you two are simpatico." Alexander leans forward. "How did you meet?" 

For the rest of the night, they end up talking about everything and anything, somehow avoiding an argument. Thomas tells him of his (failed) attempts at wooing Angelica, this one time he broke his wrist for a (quote) "heartless woman," and his experience in France.

Alexander tells him of things he never imagined telling him, tells him of things that happened back in the war and things about himself. Alexander didn't know what to expect of tonight, but the conversation ends up being pleasant. Nothing of the current situation that they'll be fighting over soon in the cabinet meeting, and Alexander would like to keep it that way.

It's nice. 

*******

They end up slightly inebriated and tumbling into the night. 

Alexander’s shoved Thomas into an alleyway. Thomas sees a devilish glint in those dark eyes before Alexander’s mouth is on his, devouring him eagerly, teeth catching on his lips.

“We are _not_ ,” Thomas groans into the kiss, hand on Alexander's shoulder, “not fucking in an alleyway like animals.”

Alexander smirks wickedly. “Oh?” he murmurs, breath ghosting at Thomas’ ear, and feels Thomas shudder against him. They are pressed against each other, their clothes so constricting and hot. Thomas’ erection presses against his through the fabric. “You're really going to tell me that you don't want this?”

He rolls his hips pointedly, Thomas jerks and throws his head back on the wall with an  _oof_. Alexander starts and steps back in surprise and amusement. They both shiver as the sudden cool night air swoops into the distance between them. Summer is hot, but nights are still cold.

“Hey, _ow."_

“Hey,” Alexander answers with a conspiratorial smirk. “Wouldn't want people catching us, would we?” he hums. 

“Fuck you,” Thomas says, and Alexander doesn't hesitate to push Thomas back against the wall, kissing him roughly, biting and sucking. His fingers slip into his breeches. He twists his wrist just so around his cock, the way he knows Thomas likes, and Thomas lets out a moan that goes straight down into the heat that's building in Alexander. 

"Tell me, Thomas, what do you want?" Alexander stops moving his hand, grins at Thomas.

"God—" Thomas growls in frustration. 

"No, but close. God couldn't make you feel this good."

"Fucking damn it. I want your mouth. Around my cock. Is that enough for you? Just get on with it—"

Alexander drops to his knees.

He’s never understood why people call this submission or weakness. Then again, most people are stupid. From his knees, Alexander can make men dizzy and slack-mouthed and enraptured. There is so much power here.

It’s incredibly gratifying, especially when it's Thomas, who usually carries himself with such arrogance and stature. Alexander can reduce him to begging and moaning and breath hitching. Thomas, who usually carries himself with such arrogance and stature, falls apart under his mouth and fingers.

"Alex— _ah_ ," Thomas breaks off, and Alexander moans around his cock, which sends vibrations throughout Thomas' body. Thomas sets his hands on Alexander's shoulders. "Do you know what you look like? Do you know how beautiful you are like this?" he says shakily. "Hot fucking mess, Alexander. Your lips. Fuck." He sounds ruined. 

Alexander slips a hand around his own cock, and he can't stop the string of moans that goes with each of Thomas' thrusts down his throat. However arousing Thomas' wrecked voice sounds, it's even better when the words morph into soft moans that spill out of him, and Alexander swallows him more hungrily, debauched and greedy. It's filthy and desperate and so fucking good, and Thomas sobs a little, overwhelmed by the pleasure. 

"I'm—"  _undone_ , Alexander thinks, and only presses Thomas in place harder. 

He comes in Alexander's mouth and whimpers, and that sends Alexander over the edge too. Sin comes white and hot and Alexander licks him clean, stands. He stumbles a little but Thomas catches him with a hand. 

They stand like that for a long few seconds. 

The moonlight casts a light over him, spit shiny on his lips and eyes bright. Thomas’ eyes are on him, transfixed.

For a captivating moment, they both feel terribly young, before war swept in and crushed what was left of Alexander’s fractured soul, forcing him have to rebuild again and again; before life and death stole Thomas’ capacity to let people close to his heart lest they leave, forcing him to build walls up in the first place. They're eager and bright, dauntless.

But they aren't young anymore and they have tasted glory. They've tasted far more than glory, and so whatever is left for (of) them has to be worth it. They know what they didn't. They are what they never imagined to be.

“You should see yourself,” Thomas says suddenly, speaking more slowly, clearly. The words lie between them comfortably. The tantalizing heat has not dispersed in the least, but there is something strangely vivid about this, about them. They aren’t a midsummer night’s haze, they aren’t a fantasy dreamt of when the night gets dark. They just—are. “Beautiful,” he says, almost carefully, wonderingly, and maybe they're drunk, maybe they're drunk in love and _fuck,_  “You take my breath away.”

And then Thomas pulls him in by the neck for a kiss that’s too gentle, and nothing about this feels crazy, which is probably the craziest part. This is not chaste, no, the desire is striking as always, but there’s something loving about it. There’s too much meaning in it. It takes  _Alexander_ _'s_ breath away, because he's not used to gentleness from men, it's been. It's been so long, and he's not used to this from Thomas. He's not—

Emotions hit Alexander and he moans into the kiss. If it sounds like a sob, Thomas doesn’t say anything, just kisses him more deeply, holds him closer. 

After they part for air, Alexander is dizzy with giddiness and a warmth that runs through him. He should feel guilty, but he doesn't, not for this. He doesn't know what compels him to say what comes next, but he blurts out, "I love you," and he might as well have blurted out his heart because it's suddenly thumping with more than post-coital adrenaline and pleasure. But he can't take it back now, finds that he doesn't want it.

Thomas looks surprised, then he rolls his eyes and smiles. "I love you too, Alexander."

He's not used to this, but, neither is Thomas. He's someone who knows how devastating Alexander can be, and maybe, maybe that's why they're crashing together and not pulling away, because Thomas doesn't love Alexander _despite_ his flaws, he loves him for them, for all of him, and. How? Alexander fills with wonder and, and. He should feel guilty for this.

But he's never felt so happy. And, with a sudden fierceness, he thinks that neither of them should feel guilty for trying to be happy. He smiles widely, eyes crinkling with happiness, and Thomas melts, can't resist kissing him again. 

...

“I can’t believe I fucking said that," Thomas says, later, and they're the only two walking in the streets. 

“Are you going to blame it on the liquor?" 

"No, that's you. Actually...on second thought, you should raise those whiskey taxes. Might as well amend the Constitution and prohibit all alcohol."

“Right when I’m regretting the tax in the first place? If I had known whiskey would loosen your mouth to finally speak something _sane_ …”  

Thomas laughs, clear in the night, and Alexander follows, breathless, bursting out in a laughter that he's not felt for years, for so so long that he's almost forgotten how to be happy. Neither of them had let themselves be happy, they didn't think they deserved it. Maybe they still don't, and they will definitely still disagree over things. But they deserve each other.

*******

Around the corner, a woman in a red dress freezes. There are soft gasps coming from inside the alleyway, unmistakable. 

 _"Alexander_ ," a man moans. 

She runs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bahaha! how many of you expected that? Kudos and comments make me very happy!! Also, yes, yes, an implied pairing is Laurens/Hamilton, in case you were wondering. 
> 
> As usual, feel free to drop by on tumblr at [kolminye](http://kolminye.tumblr.com) <3 i love making new friends and talking about all things hamilton!


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